by Lee Rourke
‘What did you talk about …’
‘You …’
‘…’
‘We mostly talked about you …’
‘…’
‘I knew it was you … When I first saw you, off the train … I recognised him in you immediately …’
‘Oh …’
‘You know … He …’
‘I have to …’
‘No … Wait … He …’
‘He wasn’t a good man …’
‘He worshipped the ground you walked on … You have to believe me …’
‘It’s too late, though, isn’t it …’
‘He wanted things to be different …’
‘He slipped away from me, out of view … His life is meaningless to me.’
‘Yours wasn’t to him … in fact, you’re the only reason he went on, the only reason he remained … He lived in hope … That’s what he said to me … He lived in hope that you’d accept him as your father, that’s what he said … That’s what he wanted to tell …’
‘Well … He had a funny way of showing it …’
‘There’s no right way of …’
‘…’
‘He wanted you to accept him …’
‘…’
‘He wanted you to acknowledge him as more than …’
‘Just stop it now … He’s gone, no trace after tomorrow … for good … As much as you know him, as much as all the time you spent with him, listening to his bullshit, you never could, or will know him as much as I do now …’
‘But …’
‘But what?’
‘He … He said something …’
‘What?’
‘He knew you’d come again, he wanted it to be that way … He …’
‘What?’
‘He said … “Tell him, tell him to speak quietly and to carry a big stick … that’s all he’ll need.” That’s what he said … He said it’s a quote, but I’ve forgotten who he said it’s from. He told me to tell you this, he kept repeating it over and over …’
‘Do what …’
‘Speak quietly and carry a big stick. That’s what he said.’
‘I don’t … I don’t think I understand …’
‘That’s all he said to me, he made sure that I remembered the quote … He knew how bad my memory is, so he told me over and over, so that I’d be able to remember …’
‘For this moment?’
‘Well, yes … I wanted to tell you in the pub, or visit the caravan, but you were always talking with Robbie …’
‘Here … In the middle of this road?’
‘That’s all he wanted to tell you …’
‘On this wretched island?’
‘I don’t know what else to say …’
‘…’
‘Wait … Sorry … Wait …’
I forget about the jetty and continue towards the Lobster Smack, leaving him standing in the road. I should speak to Mr Buchanan one last time, just to say goodbye, to thank him. There’s so much more I should ask him, but there doesn’t seem to be a point to it any more. It would just prolong everything, when what I really need to do is move things on, away from all this. One day I know that I’ll finally look back at all this, I’ll read my notes and re-watch all my recordings and I’ll be able to make sense of it all, but it seems such a long way off at the moment.
is it all finished?
To my right, the oil refinery towers over me: tall chimneys, the gargantuan oil containers, brimming with the stuff. I want to submerge myself in it somehow, to sink slowly into it, its blackness engulfing me, a blackness I’d be unable to escape from, never to be found, sunken, returned, lost in its gloop, where I’d remain, entombed for aeons, eventually broken down into particles and matter, used to power giant engines on ships, machinery, fuelling the big bangs of industry. I would return to where I came from: the blackness of night.
I carry on walking, as quickly as I can. I need to finish what I started. I head straight for the Lobster Smack to see Mr Buchanan. Just as I’m about to walk through the door to the pub my phone begins to ring. It’s Cal.
‘Hello …’
‘Jon …’
‘Cal …’
‘Is it all finished?’
‘What?’
‘Is it all finished?’
‘What, sorry, I can’t hear you, it’s breaking up, the signal is breaking up, where are you?’
‘I’m at Stansted … Just got back …’
‘Right, okay …’
‘Is it all finished?’
‘Yes, Cal, it’s all finished …’
‘Oh good … Just remember to label all the boxes correctly, okay …’
‘Sure, Cal …’
‘We’ve got to go …’
‘Cal, I need to …’
‘Our car is here … We’ve got to go … I’ll phone you tomorrow …’
‘Sure …’
‘…’
‘…’
it doesn’t feel like an ending
When I walk into the Lobster Smack Mr Buchanan greets me almost immediately. There’s a broad smile across his face. He adjusts his wire-framed glasses and pats me on the shoulder.
‘Jon … Jon … I didn’t expect to see you today …’
‘Oh … I just …’
‘I thought you’d be in Southend …’
‘I have … How did you know that?’
‘Oh … I guessed … I just figured that’s where you’d be …’
‘Well, I don’t need to go there any more, there’s no need for that, there’s nothing for me there now …’
‘Well, you must be ready to go back to London tomorrow?’
‘Yes … yes, I am.’
‘Must be a relief?’
‘To go back there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know … I might take a holiday, or something …’
‘Well, at your age I suppose you can still go wherever you want …’
‘Yes … I guess I can …’
‘…’
‘Mr … Robbie …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is …’
‘What?’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is Uncle Rey still alive?’
‘What?’
‘Is he?’
‘No … No … What are you talking about … What … Why do you think … What do you mean?’
‘It’s just that I have this feeling … In my gut … That he’s been talking to you all … You know, since I’ve been here, that he’s staged it all and you’re all in on it … Like he’s looking over me, or creating things for me, so that I’ll, you know … Forgive him, or something …’
It just hit me really, like that, I hadn’t given it much thought, and there’s no real reason to have reached such a far-fetched conclusion, but something in Mr Buchanan’s eyes, something in his staged reaction piques my interest. I’m convinced he’s covering something up, like there’s something else he isn’t telling me.
‘He’s as dead as Dillinger, lad.’
‘Something isn’t right about all this … It’s like …’
‘What?’
‘It’s like it’s all been staged … I can feel his presence … Like he’s there wherever I go, watching me, recording my every move with some hidden camera …’
‘But he’s dead, Jon …’
‘I feel like he’s watching us now …’
‘It’s natural to feel this way … It’s a big loss, and a sad one, under these circumstances.’
‘It just doesn’t feel right, like you know something … like you’re hiding something from me …’
‘Jon … Jon … This is ludicrous, there’s nothing to hide … Rey was a sad, lonely old man … who’d lived a life of regret. He was a truly sad man, that’s all there is to it.’
‘I just want an end to it … it doesn’t feel like an ending … it just goes o
n and on and on and on …’
I’m starting to get angry, frustrated. I seem to be shaking my stick aggressively. Mr Buchanan backs away, just out of harm’s way. I stop when I see him doing this and walk over to a table to sit down. He follows me after a slight hesitation, putting his hand on my shoulder again.
‘Nothing ends, Jon … You know that as much as I do … all it can do is go on …’
I sit with my head in my hands. I can sense Mr Buchanan fumbling around for something behind me.
‘There is one thing …’
‘Pardon?’
‘There is one more thing … Something I didn’t tell you …’
‘What … What is it?’
‘He gave me a letter.’
‘For me?’
‘No … For …’
‘Who?’
‘Your mother …’
‘Oh.’
‘He gave it to me the morning before he … You know …’
‘Where is it?’
‘He wanted me to post it to her, he just told me to post it … Nothing else …’
‘Did you?’
‘No …’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know … I must have forgotten initially … and then after what he did, I just … You know …’
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s here …’
I put the letter in my rucksack with the others. Mr Buchanan offers me some lunch as an apology. We eat rare steak and share a bottle of Burgundy. He asks me about London and I tell him that I might sell up and leave, that there’s nothing for me there either. All the while the letter to Mother is burning a hole in my rucksack. It must be the final thing he wrote, to Mother, his final thoughts. I’m itching to read it, but I remain calm, savouring each mouthful of the steak and fine wine.
‘There’re a few things I’d like to ask you to do … I can leave you the money …’
‘Certainly, Jon …’
‘Could the telescope and everything else in Uncle Rey’s shed, the charts and maps and stuff, be sent off to me, here’s my address …’
‘Sure … Of course …’
‘And there’s a bunch of Dr Feelgood records, could you send them to my brother Cal? His address is here. He doesn’t live that far from me.’
‘Yes, sure … Is there anything else?’
‘No … I think that should be it … The rest will be taken care of … I’ll drop off the money and keys with you at some point tomorrow afternoon. Could you make sure everything is sent tomorrow morning … I’ll leave the records in the shed.’
I finish my glass of Burgundy and shake Mr Buchanan by the hand. He smiles at me, but I don’t feel like smiling much. I thank him for everything, grab my stick and rucksack and walk out of the pub. I climb up the grass verge, up onto the sea wall, over the iron steps and out onto the jetty. The tide is out, revealing the rocks and pebbles, the muddy flats on which the seagulls and oystercatchers are gorging themselves on whatever it is they find out there. I find myself a suitable rock to sit on, down the steps, on the shore. I open my rucksack and take out the letter. I look at her address. I stare at each letter of her address, the place where she’s been all this time, for most of my life, living her own life away from the world. I open the envelope.
My dearest Laura,
I hope you dont mind me calling you this still? It just seems right, okay? I guess its how I rember you, how I will always remember you and our short life together. These thoughts I have of you, they well within me, surge, they spring from within me, succeeding the last, they breed self-sorrow, that I wish to shed, I wish to leave behind now, I have shed too many tears, each day these thoughts have haunted me, the closer I get to this day. I just wish I had the wings, so I can soar to you, my spirit freed of sorrow for everything I did to you – all of it through love for you, my love for you. Must it prove so fruitless? Must I strive in vain, Laura? I yearn for the day we can meet again, fearful of it at the same time. But I fear this hope is to late, its someone elses domain. Yet theres just one thought in me that pleads: who supports you now with words and love? I must tear from my heart these dead words from our youth, they are rotten, they strangle me, they pull me down, closer to the earth. I have gazed upon you from afar for to long now, I have dreamed your charms towards me in ecstacy. I have wished for this the whole of my life, picturing your beautiful face, whose beauty sets my heart ablaze. This flame within me has remained throughout my bitter, ugly life, my vulgar days without you, and all of the nothingness you left me with – but this flame, this beautiful flame has brought me nothing but ill, now its time for loftier realms to direct my will. Everything sinse you has whirled around me – those days when I kept you, when you were mine to treasure, just for those few days, you were mine, Laura, you were mine. You must understand that my actions, as treacherous as they were, were born out of my love, my desire for you. Look where these torments took me: rising into vulgar nothingness without you. Lost in sublime reverie. I am sick with it now, I am sick with regret.
There are other thoughts that mingle within me, which have compelled my heart towards these lousy passions of mine, my feverish heart, growing within me all these years – in the hope that we will one day share the same grave, shed of flesh and temptation, where we can live side by side in the silence together.
This shadowy desire splits my poor mind. Shadowed now, were no other thought can grow. The seasons pass me by now without concern, I live, have lived through them, writing for you, unable to reach you, recording all my words for you, unable to right all the wrongs I made. And you know how bad I am with them … words I can barely spell correctly. My heart grows softer, basking in your flow that radiates from these eyes of yours I carry with me each day, that beautiful image I have of you. I cant allow these thoughts to leave me, to let them drift amongst the rocks at sea, that dangerous terrain. So I sit here confronting them, writing to you, one final time, confronting the end head on, the full stop of my life, in haste, unable to tie the noose that I hope will defeat me.
I know myself, Laura, I have failed to learn anything, let alone the truth, I am held by my love for you, I have left honour behind, I have entered a dark place, a dark wood of something, self-harm, all of that, ridicule and delusion. The stronger my desire for you the stronger my shame, and the louder my head screams blame, shovelling my way in heaps. Its all my fault, and for this Im sorry. And no matter how many years have passed, my pathetic little life, my grey hair, where death now feels my true lot, I don’t look for tomorrow. I look back, I look back at you and I fail. My loss is our past, I marvel at this failing, looking back at you in the darkness of my life. I have cast sail towords you, the leeway seems good towards death thinking only of you.
Such then, I am a song to you, a song of sorrow and regret. A song, like me, that must perish. Death, my old friend, hears me, offeres me company. It seeks me and I seek it, never forgetting you, never able to harm you again, and all because I loved you to much, all because my desires run away with me.
Read this letter, my beautiful, as one final look back towards you, one gentle look at your fair face. Your beauty, your body whole – one last gaze at that smile of yours whose wounding grace has soothed my death … all my hope is ended. You were my queen of the earth, decended from above in starlight, where you comforted me, the evil race of men and dogs. In my death I will burn within you. I was yours utterly … my heart cant take any more, I showered you in my desire, I sent you my words, my heartfelt words of sorrow and regret, these words I hope you’ll one day read, as broken as they are, as shoddily put together as I have made them, so youll know that I am eternally sorry. In this darkness, in death, my death, I offer you this, for always … untill the wind blows my words away.
Always
Rey
I fold up the envelope with the address and put it in my rucksack with the others. Then I rip up the letter I’ve just read and fling it into the air. The wind carries each piece, like petals, out tow
ards the water’s edge, where they land in the black water to be carried out into the sea. I stay at the jetty until the sun begins to fall behind the oil refinery, the sky quickly darkening, the failing light twinkling on the choppy black water. Uncle Rey’s words long since washed away, sucked down into the silt and the shit, where they will remain, breaking down into particles, back to their own source, where his words will live again, somewhere else, in something else, living and dead, on and on, never ending, never going anywhere. I look out over the water, it feels like it’s about to rise up above me, like a giant duvet about to be pulled over my head. It’s comforting and frightening, I let it wash all over me before picking up my stick and rucksack and walking back to Uncle Rey’s caravan for the final time.
BACK IN THE NIGHT I LAY DOWN BY YOUR FIRESIDE
twinkling, silent, beautiful
I sleep for most of the day. There’s nothing else to do. My sleep had been fitful with nightmares. I’d ended up drinking myself into unconsciousness, after I’d packed away the contents of the shed, taking extra-special care with the telescope and all its lenses and spare parts. I labelled everything, including the box of Dr Feelgood records for Cal. Mr Buchanan was very kind and sent a member of staff to collect it all and take it to Southend to be posted. I gave him a big tip, but I can’t remember how much. At some point in the evening Cal phoned me and we argued about Uncle Rey.
‘You only sent me here because you couldn’t be fucking arsed with him …’
‘I had work … A trip …’
‘You fucking hated him …’
‘So did you …’
‘I didn’t, I might have … Well, I might now, but I didn’t then …’
‘Yes, you did … You hated going to see him … You thought he was creepy, with all his cameras … we all did …’
‘Have you ever done anything for anyone instead of yourself, Cal?’
‘What are you fucking talking about, you fuck-up …’
‘You have no idea who Uncle Rey was …’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘…’
‘I said …’
‘I know what you said …’
‘Well …’
‘You’ll never understand … you’ll never truly know who he was …’